Battered Hearts
by DevynQ
Summary: One-shot: Katniss must deal with the aftermath of her father's tragic mining accident. Unspeakable pain, bewildering anger, and the fear of starvation all play a part in unraveling what remains of Abraham's family.


**Just something I thought of yesterday whilst editing my other Hunger Games fanfic. I hope you all like it, and leave a review or comment, if you would be so kind! Happy reading~**

* * *

I fall to my knees and sit, frozen, for a brief moment. The wildness of the open field surrounds me, and I breathe in the scent of fresh orchids and dry dirt. The wind stirs my long brown hair, wrapped in its usual braid, and instead of swiping the wisps away from my face, I let them swirl around my head, unrestrained. The sky is a brilliant blue; an unfairly cheery contrast to my dark mood. I feel like I am spiraling, and I know that from here it can only get worse.

While I stood with my family at the entrance to the mines, watching hour after hour as miners finally returned to ground-level, none of them my father, the small bundle of hope within me began to wither. It was as if I had already understood what had not yet happened. A premonition, if you will.

Prim stood, shaking and teary-eyed, beside me, my arm tightened securely around her quivering shoulders. She was holding it together, but barely. My mother seemed distant, almost indifferent to the men returning to hugs and many cheers of relief and joy. She did not react as the group of us standing around the entrance were told that the last handful of men were just now being brought back to the surface. She did not react as the men unloaded, scattering quickly, or when Prim and I anxiously held our breath. She did not react when the elevator shaft emptied completely, and all that was left was silence.

She did not react when the unbelievable became reality.

After that point, my memories become hazy and fantasy-like, as if I lived them only in a dream. I remember walking back to our ramshackle house…vaguely, of course. One minute I was walking, stiffly, emotionlessly, with Prim cradled in my arms, trying to hold it together while she allowed herself to fall apart, and then suddenly I found myself here, in the ever-diminishing field on the outskirts of District 12. I must have blocked the incident out; my mind's attempt at keeping me safe. But nothing is safe, not anymore.

My father is dead.

I squeeze my eyes shut, willing away the unbearable pain and grief. So far it has only come in ripples, just agonizing enough to make me clutch my stomach, but not quite as agonizing as to render me senseless. Escape. That one word had slowly taken over every aspect of my mind, filling the narrow holes and dark crevices, and apparently this is where I needed to go. My solitary place, my field of peace and isolation, my danger-free zone.

I imagine my family living somewhere far away from here. _Here_ being District 12. If only my parents had grown up and met in some other, more prosperous district, like District 4, for instance. They never really have issues with food over there, considering they mass produce fish and fishing equipment, or basically anything to do with the sea. Shrimp, lobster, tuna – we would never have to worry about starving. Just the thought itself – no worry? no starvation? – is foreign. Living in District 12, all I've known is poorly made bread, moldy cheese, and the occasional glass of milk or bowl of watery soup. District 4 sounds like paradise.

Sighing, I pull myself up off the ground, trying to ignore the massive pain in my chest. I push away the thoughts that have already begun to overcrowd my mind – _Who will provide our family with food now? How will Prim and I afford new clothes? What if our house begins to fall apart; who will fix it? Who will chop the firewood and fill the fireplace to keep us warm at night? How will we survive?!_ – and slowly trudge back home.

"Prim?" I call hoarsely, shoving the weathered front door back.

I hear soft sniffling from upstairs, so I know she hasn't wandered off. That just leaves my mother.

"I'll be up in a minute, okay?" More sniffles.

Pressing the rough palms of my hands to my swollen eyes, I head for the kitchen. It only takes me six steps to get there from the front door. Glancing around at the sunken roof, uneven floor, and cracked walls, I see that nothing has changed. No pots have been thrown around – a sure sign of irrepressible anger. No body crumpled into a heap on the floor – a sure sign of a mental breakdown. What I do find, however, is actually expected.

My mother, sitting in one of the creaky kitchen chairs, staring blankly out of the grimy window built above our wash basin.

"Mom?" I whisper, hoping for a reassuring answer, but anticipating her absolute silence.

I am rewarded with stillness and an unquiet peace.

Anything would be better than this show of indifference. She is immobile, almost catatonic. Since I have entered the room she has not blinked a single time, nor has she shed a single tear. The slight rise and fall of her chest is barely perceptible. If it wasn't for that, I would assume that she is dead.

Instead, she merely appears a stranger, one who is disconnected from our poverty-stricken life.

Moving with the utmost care, so as not to disturb her (which doesn't seem very likely at this point), I kneel down in front of my mother in all her unresponsive glory.

"Mom, look at me," I say softly. She's avoiding eye contact. Actually, she's avoiding everything. Her zombie-like gaze remains focused out the window. "Please, just look at me."

Any acknowledgement at all will be a gift. If only she would come back from wherever she's escaped to. Doesn't she know her children need her? For goodness' sake, Prim is only seven, and I'm not much older. We need her here with us, to take care of us like she usually does.

But she does not give any indication that she's heard me.

And that's what breaks me. I can't bear the thought of losing both my mother _and_ my father in the same day. She _must_ come back to us – there's no other option. I understand that the grief is probably overpowering her and making it difficult to do, well, _anything_, but so far I've managed to keep it together, and now it's her turn. Prim and I _need_ her, and it's like she's abandoned us without a second thought.

"Mom, don't just sit there! Please, _say something_!"

Unraveling from the inside, I start to reach up for her shoulders, intent on shaking sense back into her and on making her _see_ me. But a short cry from upstairs halts my arms in mid-air, and my breathing stops.

Prim. Of course.

Resolutely standing up, I give my mother one last, hopeless glance before I trudge towards the stairs. Prim needs someone to take care of her too, and if this strange, cold woman won't be there for my little sister, than I guess I'll have to be. Never mind that I have no one; Prim and I will comfort each other.

"Oh, no, sweetheart," I whisper as I enter our shared room. She's collapsed on her bed, arms wrapped around her small frame, and her body is rocking back and forth, back and forth in a soothing rhythmic motion. Her sobs seem to overtake the room, blocking out any other stimuli. She's all I can focus on, and the pain I see etched on her face nearly brings me to my knees.

Sinking down beside her on the bed, I brush a wisp of her feather-light blonde hair away from her red-rimmed eyes. She catches sight of me once her eyes flicker open, but the tears don't cease. In fact, they seem to increase at the sight of me. Wordlessly, I hold out my arms, and she crawls into my lap, pushing her face into my dirty, too-small dress. The material is soaked in less than a minute, but that, I realize, is the least of my problems.

I hold on tight to my little sister, shushing her gently and continuing the back and forth rocking motion she's so keen on doing. Hugging and holding each other, our limbs entangled, our expressions heartbroken, and our lives bleak, we do all that we can to comfort each other in this small moment.

I know that for a while things will seem hopeless. Nothing that once mattered will be able to penetrate the depression that's sure to descend over us. My mother will be distant and unemotional, stuck inside herself with the grief and anger and fear. Prim will be quiet and gloomy, unable to express her emotions in any way other than through wracking sobs and relentless tears. I will attempt to keep our family together and away from the brink of starvation and total poverty. This is not only what we _must_ do, but what we _need_ to do.

We will survive

against all odds

whether we want to

or not.


End file.
